


Bistro Styx

by thewhitebirds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dysfuncentine, Dinner, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Baggage, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Independence, Love, Love Confessions, Paris (City), Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitebirds/pseuds/thewhitebirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even after all these years, being around Pansy felt like missing a step on a trick staircase." Written for Dysfuncentine 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bistro Styx

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quotes borrowed from Rita Dove's wonderful poem, "The Bistro Styx."

_"But are you happy?" Fearing, I whispered it_  
 _quickly. "What? You know, Mother"--_  
  
 _she bit into the starry rose of a fig--_  
 _"one really should try the fruit here."_  
I've lost her _, I thought, and called for the bill._  
  
(Rita Dove, "The Bistro Styx")

 **i. she was thinner, with a mannered gauntness**  
  
Pansy paused in the doorway--perhaps it was for dramatic effect in the dim light, or perhaps she really was searching for him. Draco lifted his hand slightly, and she met his eyes. _I didn't think you would come. As if I could have stayed away._ She walked--no, she _sauntered_ \--around the other diners, who were murmuring to each other in French.  
  
"I already ordered us wine," he said brusquely. (They never said hello to each other, or goodbye, for that matter.) She drummed her nails on the table, a ripple of shiny red lacquer, and picked up a menu. People always said that Pansy's nose was her most identifiable feature--retroussé, turned-up, or maybe just plain old pug-like, but Draco disagreed. People who said that had never seen her hands, the delicate bony wrists, the perfect straightness, the thin, papery fingers. She clutched the menu with a vise-like grip.  
  
"How have you been, Draco?" Her voice was low and mild. He winced. The Pansy he remembered was neither low nor mild, but a bundle of shrieks and screams and squeals and sobs. The sound of his childhood, echoing through the hallways of Malfoy Manor or Hogwarts or the townhouse they had briefly shared. Her hair was twisted up; the fringe of bangs was gone. Her lips were crimson. Only the eyes were the same, black and hostile and long-lashed as ever.  
  
"Fine," he said, launching into a spiel about the family and the investments and the philanthropy and all the other things that made up his life these days. "Just wonderful, actually." The wine came with bread and cheese. She ate with relish--globs of camembert, brie. A chunk of bread. The old Pansy had lived on lettuce and coffee, sour and bitter.  
  
"I bought a house, you know," she said abruptly, licking her lips. "On the Champs-Élysées."  
  
"By yourself?" He blurted out on accident.  
  
Pansy's lip curled disdainfully. "Yes, Draco, by _myself_. Fancy that, a world where a woman can own her own property!" She gave a little shriek of laughter; at least that had not changed, he thought, the tendency to find herself amusing. Her cheeks were red from the wine. "Blaise comes around sometimes."  
  
Was it supposed to make him jealous? Probably; she had always been like that, and it was effective. He could feel the roll in his stomach, the slight thinning of his lips. Of course she had the right to do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted. She had always made that abruptly clear, hadn't she? But he had said things like that too; he could remember their fights in sixth year, mascara streaming down her cheeks, their voices hoarse.  
  
He swallowed an oyster. "People in London are starting to talk about your art collection, you know. Maybe I'll come and see it sometime."  
  
"If you like," she said with an indifferent shrug. _It couldn't matter less to me. It couldn't matter more._  
  
  
 **ii. are you content to conduct your life as a cliché**  
  
The food didn't stop. Another bottle of wine arrived, pinot noir, rich, full-bodied. Saffron risotto. Lobster tails. He leaned back in his chair, watching her. Even after all these years, being around Pansy felt like missing a step on a trick staircase. The swooping in his stomach. The nervousness, the frustration, the exhilaration.  
  
"I was thinking about that blasted hippogriff the other day," she said, almost merrily, tucking a curl behind her ear. "I wonder where it went. Maybe it's still alive today in the Forbidden Forest, pleased as punch to have one-upped the Malfoy wrath." _How long could they go,_ he wondered, _without touching on the war, that unhealed scar?_  
  
"Maybe," Draco agreed. "That oaf is still teaching, sadly. The only thing I've ever learned about caring for magical creatures is that it's better to stay the hell away from them."  
  
Pansy laughed loudly and he felt inexplicable relief that she still found him funny. They talked with silences. The Yule Ball was fun, she said, and he agreed. They didn't talk about the first kiss, clumsy and awkward on the side of her mouth. So were our summers, he said, and she agreed. They didn't talk about the afternoon after the battle where he had wandered into Pansy's house, bleeding and dusty and exhausted and a momentary fugitive and she had pulled him into her room.  
  
"Did the townhouse sell yet?" A carefully neutral question; the nails were drumming again on the table. _Who cleaned up our mess?_  
  
He nodded. "Terry Boot made an offer. The lawyers are coming here tomorrow to see you for your signature. It's probably the best price we'll get at this point with the market as it is. Theo looked at the place but didn't want it at the end." _It's better that way._  
  
  
 **iii. in company I tend toward more muted shades**  
  
"Our parents are happy about this, you know." She waved her fork to indicate _this_ \--the whole world, the awkward silence between them, the empty space, the bistro. "Papa wrote to me that I can marry any Frenchman I want," she snorted. "And he hates the French."  
  
 _At the end, you'll want a quieter life, darling,_ Narcissa had said to him. _She's a nice girl, and you've been friends since you were born, practically, and you know I adore Julianne and Preston, but the two of you together are so... turbulent. Yes, that's the word._  
  
"You should remind him that we've been cleared of all charges," Draco drawled. "Merlin knows I've tried."  
  
"Well, you could remind your mother that I'm not a wild child," she responded, playing with her spoon. "I like her, you know. She's terribly brave."  
  
"She wouldn't think you were wild if you weren't always running away abruptly in pursuit of Merlin-knows-what," he said a little sharply. _But then, we took turns leaving and coming back and leaving again. We never said hello to each other, or goodbye, for that matter._  
  
Pansy smiled sadly. "Running away in pursuit of _everything_ , Draco. You know, I felt myself get sadder and wearier every day at home, making sacrifices that I didn't want to"--sacrifices for _you_ , she didn't say--"and trying to avoid people spitting at me on the streets. I'm tired of being the bitch who wanted to hand over Potter. I'm a very different woman here, Draco."  
  
He could feel a lump rising in his throat. "I know it." They sat in silence for a long minute, ignoring the hovering waiters. "I've taken up smoking," he said ruefully, attempting to lighten the mood.  
  
She flashed a smile. "Me too. How awful. I know it's going to be unfashionable soon, but I don't give a damn anymore." Her small, thin hands reached across the table for the salt and pepper shakers.  
  
  
 **iv. she paused and had the grace to drop her eyes**  
  
Dessert came; caramelized pears, figs with mascarpone, pomegranate seeds gleaming in a glass bowl, tiny glasses of amaretto. She was greedy--that hadn't changed--reaching for everything, craving more. She ordered an espresso and joked in rapid-fire French with the waiter, who was pleased and astonished. He watched the line of her arm, covered in silver bracelets. She wore rings on her right hand and nothing on her left.  
  
"Do you think we had something worth saving?" He hadn't meant to say it aloud and covered the embarrassment with a long drink of coffee, feeling it scald his tongue and throat.  
  
"Of course." She looked surprised that had asked. He watched her wrist as she stirred the coffee. "We just weren't brave enough."  
  
But it wasn't about bravery, Draco felt. Sometimes things were broken and you just couldn't fix them. If he closed his eyes, he could hear glass breaking and her screaming at him and both of them making mistakes, day in and out and choking and trying to be happy because they had _planned_ it that way.  
  
"I'm getting married," he said, exhaling.  
  
Her face was surprisingly emotionless. "To Astoria. You love her." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"Yes." It was love, he was sure, but it was also something else. Astoria was a Healer; she was politically savvy and diplomatic. She was soothing and consistent, _wise_ , even. Patient always. Astoria understood things. She fixed things.  
  
Pansy pulled the fur stole from the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders like soft armor. "You'll never love anyone as much as you love me."  
  
His eyes stung and he knew overwhelmingly in that instant it was true. He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. When he looked at her again, she was looking down at the pomegranate seeds glittering like rubies in her palm. He had always hated those things. That realm between sour and sweet was never satisfying and he couldn't get over how they looked like drops of blood.  
  
"You could come back to England, Pans," Draco finally to say. "Things are different now."  
  
She ate the seeds one by one; nothing seemed to smudge the crimson lipstick. "Go home, Draco. You'll be happy with her... happy enough, anyway, and I guess that's all we deserve after everything that's happened." She stood up.  
  
He lit a cigarette and watched silently as strode towards the door, heels clicking on the glossy floor. Maybe he could have stopped her. Maybe not. He wasn't brave enough, he realized, but it wasn't just about bravery. Sometimes things were broken and you couldn't fix them. Pansy's silhouette was disappearing into the foggy Paris night, and even if he called out, Draco knew she wouldn't turn to look back at him with her hostile eyes.  
  
But then, they were not in the habit of saying goodbye to each other, or hello, for that matter.


End file.
